The Works of Charles and Mary Lamb
Chapter 223 : Then why not I? What's Charles to me, or Oliver, But as my own advancement hangs

Then why not I? What's Charles to me, or Oliver, But as my own advancement hangs on one of them?

I to myself am chief.--I know, Some shallow mouths cry out, that I am smit With the gauds and shew of state, the point of place, And trick of precedence, the ducks, and nods, Which weak minds pay to rank. 'Tis not to sit In place of wors.h.i.+p at the royal masques, Their pastimes, plays, and Whitehall banquetings, For none of these, Nor yet to be seen whispering with some great one, Do I affect the favours of the court.

I would be great, for greatness hath great _power_, And that's the fruit I reach at.-- Great spirits ask great play-room. Who could sit, With these prophetic swellings in my breast, That p.r.i.c.k and goad me on, and never cease, To the fortunes something tells me I was born to?

Who, with such monitors within to stir him, Would sit him down, with lazy arms across, A unit, a thing without a name in the state, A something to be govern'd, not to govern, A fis.h.i.+ng, hawking, hunting, country gentleman?

(_Exit_.)

SCENE.--_Sherwood Forest_.

SIR WALTER WOODVIL. SIMON WOODVIL.

(_Disguised as Frenchmen_.)

SIR WALTER How fares my boy, Simon, my youngest born, My hope, my pride, young Woodvil, speak to me?

Some grief untold weighs heavy at thy heart: I know it by thy alter'd cheer of late.

Thinkest, thy brother plays thy father false?

It is a mad and thriftless prodigal, Grown proud upon the favours of the court; Court manners, and court fas.h.i.+ons, he affects, And in the heat and uncheck'd blood of youth, Harbours a company of riotous men, All hot, and young, court-seekers, like himself, Most skilful to devour a patrimony; And these have eat into my old estates, And these have drain'd thy father's cellars dry; But these so common faults of youth not named, (Things which themselves outgrow, left to themselves,) I know no quality that stains his honor.

My life upon his faith and n.o.ble mind, Son John could never play thy father false.

SIMON I never thought but n.o.bly of my brother, Touching his honor and fidelity.

Still I could wish him charier of his person, And of his time more frugal, than to spend In riotous living, graceless society, And mirth unpalatable, hours better employ'd (With those persuasive graces nature lent him) In fervent pleadings for a father's life.

SIR WALTER I would not owe my life to a jealous court, Whose shallow policy I know it is, On some reluctant acts of prudent mercy, (Not voluntary, but extorted by the times, In the first tremblings of new-fixed power, And recollection smarting from old wounds,) On these to build a spurious popularity.

Unknowing what free grace or mercy mean, They fear to punish, therefore do they pardon.

For this cause have I oft forbid my son, By letters, overtures, open solicitings, Or closet-tamperings, by gold or fee, To beg or bargain with the court for my life.

SIMON And John has ta'en you, father, at your word, True to the letter of his paternal charge.

SIR WALTER Well, my good cause, and my good conscience, boy, Shall be for sons to me, if John prove false.

Men die but once, and the opportunity Of a n.o.ble death is not an every-day fortune: It is a gift which n.o.ble spirits pray for.

SIMON I would not wrong my brother by surmise; I know him generous, full of gentle qualities, Incapable of base compliances, No prodigal in his nature, but affecting This shew of bravery for ambitious ends.

He drinks, for 'tis the humour of the court, And drink may one day wrest the secret from him, And pluck you from your hiding place in the sequel.

SIR WALTER Fair death shall be my doom, and foul life his.

Till when, we'll live as free in this green forest As yonder deer, who roam unfearing treason: Who seem the Aborigines of this place, Or Sherwood theirs by tenure.

SIMON 'Tis said, that Robert Earl of Huntingdon, Men call'd him Robin Hood, an outlaw bold, With a merry crew of hunters here did haunt, Not sparing the king's venison. May one believe The antique tale?

SIR WALTER

There is much likelihood, Such bandits did in England erst abound, When polity was young. I have read of the pranks Of that mad archer, and of the tax he levied On travellers, whatever their degree, Baron, or knight, whoever pa.s.s'd these woods, Layman, or priest, not sparing the bishop's mitre For spiritual regards; nay, once, 'tis said, He robb'd the king himself.

SIMON A perilous man. (_Smiling_.)

SIR WALTER How quietly we live here, Unread in the world's business, And take no note of all its slippery changes.

'Twere best we make a world among ourselves, A little world, Without the ills and falsehoods of the greater: We two being all the inhabitants of ours, And kings and subjects both in one.

SIMON Only the dangerous errors, fond conceits, Which make the business of that greater world, Must have no place in ours: As, namely, riches, honors, birth, place, courtesy, Good fame and bad, rumours and popular noises, Books, creeds, opinions, prejudices national, Humours particular, Soul-killing lies, and truths that work small good, Feuds, factions, enmities, relations.h.i.+ps, Loves, hatreds, sympathies, antipathies, And all the intricate stuff quarrels are made of.

(_Margaret enters in boy's apparel_.)

SIR WALTER What pretty boy have we here?

MARGARET _Bon jour, messieurs_. Ye have handsome English faces, I should have ta'en you else for other two, I came to seek in the forest.

SIR WALTER Who are they?

MARGARET A gallant brace of Frenchmen, curled monsieurs, That, men say, haunt these woods, affecting privacy, More than the manner of their countrymen.

SIMON We have here a wonder.

The face is Margaret's face.

SIR WALTER The face is Margaret's, but the dress the same My Stephen sometimes wore.

(_To Margaret_)

Suppose us them; whom do men say we are?

Or know you what you seek?

MARGARET A worthy pair of exiles, Two whom the politics of state revenge, In final issue of long civil broils, Have houseless driven from your native France, To wander idle in these English woods, Where now ye live; most part Thinking on home, and all the joys of France, Where grows the purple vine.

SIR WALTER These woods, young stranger, And gra.s.sy pastures, which the slim deer loves, Are they less beauteous than the land of France, Where grows the purple vine?

MARGARET I cannot tell.

To an indifferent eye both shew alike.

'Tis not the scene, But all familiar objects in the scene, Which now ye miss, that const.i.tute a difference.

Ye had a country, exiles, ye have none now; Friends had ye, and much wealth, ye now have nothing; Our manners, laws, our customs, all are foreign to you, I know ye loathe them, cannot learn them readily; And there is reason, exiles, ye should love Our English earth less than your land of France, Where grows the purple vine; where all delights grow, Old custom has made pleasant.

SIR WALTER You, that are read So deeply in our story, what are you?

MARGARET A bare adventurer; in brief a woman, That put strange garments on, and came thus far To seek an ancient friend: And having spent her stock of idle words, And feeling some tears coming, Hastes now to clasp Sir Walter Woodvil's knees, And beg a boon for Margaret, his poor ward. (_Kneeling_.)

SIR WALTER Not at my feet, Margaret, not at my feet.

MARGARET Yes, till her suit is answer'd.

SIR WALTER Name it.

MARGARET A little boon, and yet so great a grace, She fears to ask it.

SIR WALTER Some riddle, Margaret?

MARGARET No riddle, but a plain request.

SIR WALTER Name it.